31. Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty One
Ren
I pull into the driveway just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten since lunch, and my mind drifts to the stack of court cases waiting for me. Dinner can wait—so can the paperwork. I reach into my pocket, sliding out my phone, and unlock it with a quick flick of my thumb.
The blue app on my screen opens to a live feed of the studio cameras. Habit, mostly. But this time, I stop cold.
Byron’s body convulses on the ground, his muscles jerking violently. Sweat gleams on his skin, pooling beneath him like a second layer. Zooming in, I see the fever flush staining his cheeks and the glisten of his labored breaths.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving open the car door and slamming it shut behind me.
I half-jog to the studio, the grass crunching beneath my shoes, my pulse thrumming faster with every step. I scan my hand over the keypad, the door clicking open with a mechanical hiss.
The air inside is stifling, thick with the sour tang of sweat and something sharper—decay, maybe. The metallic scent makes my nose twitch, and my stomach knots.
Sure enough, my pet lies on the ground, curled in on himself like a wounded animal. His chest heaves, each breath shallow and desperate.
I approach quickly, using my foot; I nudge him onto his back, and his head lolls to the side, limp and unresponsive. His skin burns like a furnace beneath the sole of my shoe.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended.
“There...” he croaks, his voice thin and rasping. “Stop… p-please.”
His words dissolve into a garbled moan as another spasm wracks his body. My gaze drops to his cock, and there it is—the angry, swollen infection radiating from the stitches. The skin is raw, puffy, and glistening with heat.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. “Of course it’s infected,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking useless.”
Crossing the room, I grab the keys to his chain from their hook, the metal cool against my palm. Turning back, I pause, watching him convulse weakly on the ground. For a moment, I consider leaving him. Let the fever fry his brain, let the infection take him—it would save me the trouble. But the sound he makes, a strangled whimper halfway between a sob and a gasp, lodges itself in my chest.
“Goddamn it,” I hiss, kneeling beside him.
“You know,” I say, slipping the key into the collar around his neck, “your nickname is fitting. You’ve become a thorn in my ass.”
The lock clicks, and I pull the collar free, revealing the red, irritated skin beneath. For a moment, I stare at it, at the angry imprint it’s left on his neck, and something sharp and unwelcome twists in my chest.
“You’ve been such…” I trail off, shaking my head as I shove the collar aside. “Such a fucking pain.”
I grab his upper body, his weight sagging against me as I haul him upright. His head droops onto my shoulder, his breath hot and damp against my neck. His skin is searing, like holding a live coal in my arms.
He groans, his body tipping sideways, and I adjust my grip to keep him upright.
“I got you,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
The words taste foreign on my tongue, too soft, too caring. What the fuck am I doing? I break things. I ruin them. That’s who I am. That’s all I’ve ever been.
But here I am, carrying him like some goddamn savior.
His fevered body feels impossibly heavy as I drag him toward the main house, every step an effort. The chains clink faintly behind us, the sound swallowed by his labored breathing and my own pounding heart.
By the time I kick the door open, my arms are trembling from the strain. I haul him inside, the cool air hitting me like a slap. He groans again, barely conscious, his head lolling against my chest.
For a moment, I stand there, holding him, feeling the heat radiate off his body like a furnace. He’s limp, pathetic, but alive. Barely.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
The words echo in the empty room as I lower him onto the couch, his fevered skin leaving damp patches on the fabric. His chest rises and falls erratically, each breath a struggle.
I stand over him, watching as he writhes weakly, his lips moving soundlessly. Whatever he’s saying is lost to the fever, to the delirium clawing at his mind.
And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the urge to fix him.
It’s infuriating.
It’s fucking terrifying.
I shake my head, stepping back and running a hand through my hair.
“You better survive this, Thorn,” I mutter, turning toward the kitchen. “I’m not done with you yet.”
After making a few calls to secure antibiotics—nothing money can’t fix—I haul Byron over my shoulder again. His body radiates heat like a furnace, each breath a shallow, ragged rasp that barely moves his chest. His weight sags against me, dead and heavy.
“I forgive,” he mutters, voice slurred and weak. “Mama…”
I pause, my grip tightening instinctively. His fevered words claw at something buried deep, a memory I don’t want. How quaint—asking for his mommy, dreaming of forgiveness. For a moment, I wonder what it’s like to be loved like that. To have someone who would fight for you. To be cherished, protected.
But the thought evaporates as quickly as it comes.
I was loved. I was cared for.
She made sure of that. My mother gave me everything, taught me everything. She showed me how to be Ren Sato, in every sense of the name. My success, my power, my control—I owe it all to her.
And I don’t need forgiveness.
Byron shifts, his body tipping dangerously to the side. For a fleeting second, I consider letting him fall. The image of his skull cracking against the stairs flashes through my mind, vivid and satisfying. But I don’t. My grip tightens, pulling him back against me, and I feel his heat sear into my skin.
“Fucking Thorn,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m…” he breathes again, his words trailing off. His brown eyes flicker open, glassy and unfocused, before closing once more. He’s muttering something, defending himself even in his dreams. Pathetic.
Reaching the main bathroom, I kick the door open with a sharp crack. The air inside is cool and clean, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat radiating from his fevered body. I toe off my shoes, the rubber soles squeaking against the tiles, and lower us both onto the shower floor.
The glass behind me is icy as I slump back against it, his limp body slumped against my chest. His skin burns, slick with sweat, his breaths shallow and uneven. I clap my hands, activating the water. It sprays down in a scalding torrent, and I hiss through my teeth.
“Of course,” I mutter, shifting him off me and onto the wet floor. His body slumps to the side, his face slack and pale, his lips dry and cracked. He looks broken, like a dog hit by a car and left to die on the side of the road.
And I hate it.
I hate seeing him like this. Weak. Helpless. He’s supposed to fight, to resist. To bleed beautifully for me, not like this. Not like a corpse.
Shoving the thought aside, I stand and adjust the water to its coldest setting. It cascades down in icy rivulets, steam rising as it meets the heat of his fevered skin. I crouch back down, my knees pressing against the slick tile as I drag him into my lap, his back pressed against my chest.
My hand moves to his cock, my fingers brushing over the inflamed stitches. The skin around them is swollen, red and angry, oozing with infection. Each seam strains against the pressure, like it could burst at any moment.
The cold water pounds against us, soaking through my clothes and running in rivers across his fevered body. His chest rises and falls unevenly, each breath a struggle that rattles in his throat.
“You’re a fucking mess,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. My fingers linger over the infection, the heat of it a stark contrast to the icy water. “And now add inconvenience to the list of things you already are.”
He groans softly, his head rolling back against my shoulder. For a moment, I glance down at his face—eyes fluttering beneath heavy lids, lips parted as if he’s trying to speak.
“You’ll hate me for this when you wake up,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the rush of water. “That’s good. Hate makes you fight. And I want you to fight, Thorn. I want to break you piece by piece, not like this.”
My grip tightens around his fevered girth, just enough to draw a faint whimper from him. His body shifts against mine, weak and fevered, and something sharp twists in my chest.
Even broken, he’s mine.
Every breath, every moan, every shiver belongs to me.
The infection, the fever—it’s trying to take him from me. But I won’t let it.
The water runs red as the infection oozes from his body, pooling around us like blood. I tighten my grip on his chest, holding him against me as the water grows colder, sharper. His skin burns against mine, but the fire doesn’t scare me.
“You’ll survive, Thorn,” I murmur, leaning close enough for my breath to brush his ear. “Because I won’t let you die. Not yet. “
The cold water pounds on, and I stay there, holding him in the frigid shower, waiting for the fever to break.
I adjust the cuff on the railing of my bed, ensuring it clicks securely into place. Just one cuff—for now. Control starts with small details. I need him where I can see him, monitor his recovery. Byron is special because, like me, he was broken when he came into this world, and I will show him the way.
Kevin works in silence, his black-gloved hands moving efficiently as he sets up the IV and prepares the injections. He’s a professional, the kind of man you call when legality isn’t part of the equation. No questions asked, no moral judgments. That’s why I keep him around—and because I hold enough dirt on him to ensure his loyalty.
“The medicine should clear the infection,” Kevin says, adjusting the drip with the calm precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. “I added Tylenol for the fever and pain. Keep the area dry, and apply the antibiotic ointment twice a day. His body will need rest, fluids, and food when he wakes.”
He pulls the blanket up to Byron’s chest, pausing to glance at the restrained wrist. “Also,” he continues, “that circumcision—“ He stops, clears his throat, and glances at me. “It’s restitched and cleaned. If the area gets irritated again, the damage could be worse.”
I nod, barely paying attention. My focus is on Byron. His chest rises and falls shallowly beneath the blanket, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his pale forehead. Even unconscious, he looks pathetic. Weak.
But he’s alive. And that’s all that matters.
Kevin strips off his gloves, tossing them into the black trash can by my nightstand. “When he wakes, make sure he eats something. The meds will be hard on his stomach.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say dismissively, my voice clipped. “Efficient as always. I’ll transfer the funds tonight. Add a tip for your trouble.”
Kevin scratches his beard, his gaze flicking to the cuff again. His hesitation is brief, but I catch it. “Hold the money for now,” he mutters. “I need a lawyer.”
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “For?”
“Hit and run,” he says, his voice low. “Got drunk, hit some guy. He didn’t make it.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Messy business,” I say lightly. “But manageable. Let’s talk Monday. I’m sure there’s something I can do for you.”
Kevin nods, his hand briefly brushing his face, a nervous tic I’ve seen before. We both know this favor will cost him, and I’ll enjoy making him pay.
I follow him downstairs, watching as he pulls out of the driveway. The night air bites against my skin, sharp and bracing, and for a moment, I let it anchor me. Then my attention shifts to the small brown paper bag sitting on the counter by the door.
The udon noodles I ordered earlier. My stomach growls as I grab the bag, the rich scent of broth and spices wafting up as I carry it into the kitchen.
I sit at the counter, the cool marble beneath my arms as I pull out the plastic container and chopsticks. The noodles are still warm, steam curling into the air as I take the first bite. It’s good—comforting, even—but I barely taste it. My thoughts remain upstairs with him.
Byron’s infection is handled for now. His fever might break by morning. But that’s not the real problem, is it?
The real problem is that I need him alive. Not because I care, because I don’t. But because he’s mine.
I finish the noodles quickly, rinse the container in the sink, and head back upstairs, my feet quiet on the hardwood. The room smells of antiseptic and sweat, the sharp tang of illness hanging in the air. Byron lies still, his face slack and pale. His fever hasn’t broken yet, but now, instead of an injured dog, he looks like a peaceful angel, lying on my bed, wearing my boxers and silk pajamas.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. His lips twitch faintly, a soundless murmur slipping through the air. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, catching the dim light, and I reach out, brushing it away with my thumb. His skin is scalding.
“You’re lucky I don’t let things break so easily,” I murmur, my voice low, almost tender.
The cuff glints in the dim light, a cold, sharp contrast to the fevered heat of his body. I tighten the blanket around him, tucking it carefully, deliberately. Not out of care. Out of control.
His chest stirs faintly, a shallow gasp escaping him. For a moment, his lips form a word—inaudible, fragile, a whisper of something that doesn’t quite reach me.
“You’ll survive this,” I say, leaning close enough that my breath brushes his ear. “Because you have to bleed for me, and only then will I consider letting you die.”
I stay there for a moment, watching him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the light plays across his fevered skin.
It’s not care. It’s ownership.
Tomorrow, he’ll wake up, and he’ll know exactly who holds the leash.
And I’ll make sure he never forgets it.